Connected
by shellyknack
Summary: She knew Sodapop Curtis. OC. Implied one-sided romance. One-shot. Just SC through the eyes of someone else.


**Connected**

She knew Sodapop Curtis.

His mere name was enough to make her inwardly gag. Sweet, savory _Sodapop,_ straight from the bottle with the cap popped off. Saturated sugar tearing at her intestines with a carbonated sizzle.

She hated people like him. People who just figured that because they had that golden smile they could do whatever and everything would just turn out all right in the end. Life wasn't like one of those ginchy beach flicks that she and her girlfriends flirted their way into by batting their freshly mascara coated eyelashes at the ushers. Life was real.

But Sodapop Curtis never seemed to mind.

She remembered, when he still went to school, that he'd never hand in assignments. He'd just smile, shrug sheepishly, flash those dimples purposefully—and those stupid, lonely teachers fell for every single act. His oral reports would barely contain a basic understanding of the material, but would be so full of jokes and wild handed movements that he'd get standing ovations. She used to sit next to him in history, and he'd always fall asleep during the tests, face against the first page, and would never circle a single answer. He didn't even try.

That's probably what ticked her off the most—was that he didn't even try, didn't work for anything. He was just like all of the other lazy, easy-going greaser boys. Except all of the girls swooned over him like he wasn't from this world. And sure, she'd bitterly admit he was good looking, she'd have to be blind or thoroughly enjoy the company of other women to think otherwise. She'd crinkle her nose and scoff loudly when her friends would giggle stupidly and squeal about how he had the absolute glow of a movie star. And she'd roll her eyes. She'd stick to Marlon Brando, thanyouverymuch.

She'd get gas at the DX sometimes, too—and even there, at his job, he was fooling around, showing off to polished looking girls, flexing and smiling, flirting unabashedly.

At least his friend—whatsisname? Steve something—had some work ethic. She'd seen him around school too, but he was too rough and angry looking to be anywhere near as charming Sodapop Curtis. And he didn't do well in school, either, but boy did that kid know his way around an engine. She could ask the seemingly most complex question in the world and he'd answer without batting an eyelash. And she'd see him sometimes, outside the steps of the library, with an armful of magazines and books, all of which looked like, from where she stood, about the inner workings of mechanics. You wanted to know just how much replacing the fanbelt is gonna be? How much time it's gonna take? How if you're really in a fix you could use a strong pair of pantyhose to go on for a couple of miles more? Steve could tell you.

Sodapop Curtis could pull a quarter out from behind your ear.

And his little brother Ponyboy, was just downright adorable. He had these freckled cheeks and big eyes, and tried just so hard to look tough with his slicked back hair and muscle-shirts. And he was always carrying those big stacks of text books with looseleaf paper flying out everywhere, pencil clenched between his teeth. He was in her advanced chem course, and the desolate look in his eyes whenever he got anything below and eighty-five just about killed her. Need help with the difference between acids and bases? A quick summary of the _Scarlet Letter_? Need to know which flick is worth sneaking into, or what book to take out from the library? Ponyboy could tell you.

Sodapop Curtis could open a can of coke _really _well.

She vaguely remembered Darrel Curtis. Vaguely. And she'd see him sometimes, around the city, floating between construction jobs. He was neat looking. Orderly. A man who knew what he had to do, and how to get it done.

Sodapop Curtis could do a cartwheel better than most girls.

So when she was going through that whole "transition period" as her school guidance counselor liked to call it, after her mom died—when she cut off all her hair until it was as short as a boy's, dyed it black, and refused to wear skirts anymore—people were concerned. People were shocked. Her friend Jenna actually started crying when she saw her. But she tried to explain. It wasn't because her mom died. She just wanted to try something…new.

When she went to buy a pack of Camels from the DX, Sodapop Curtis was the only one to smile at her and tell her that he really dug her new hair.

Her only response was a tiny thank you as she blushed furiously, threw some money down on the counter, and ran back to her car. It wasn't until she was home again and could breathe normally that she realized she'd forgotten her damn cigarettes.

This made her hate Sodapop Curtis ever more.

Her friends stopped hanging around her after a while. Everyone at school started to avoid her. She knew why, she could change it if she wanted—they all thought she was weird now. She heard the rumors in-between stalls in the girls' bathroom. That she had no friends. That she didn't eat anymore. That all she talked about was her dead mother. That she was crazy, flunking out, pregnant, running away.

But she wasn't any of those things. She was just…scared. And no one understood.

At least, that's what it felt like.

She knew Sodapop Curtis. But what she didn't know was that he worked two jobs—one at the DX, the other at this tiny diner deep within the concrete heart of Tulsa, far enough away from the east and west suburbs that no one from school would come traipsing along unless they were looking for it. Which was why she liked it. No one whispered, no one knew.

She was like a ghost in her own house now—even since her mom passed her dad hadn't been able to look at her without seeing bits of pieces of her in his daughter, hadn't been able to stop crying each time their eyes met over the dinner table. So she'd changed her hair, hoping that maybe it was just the strawberry blonde locks that had been the problem. But now he wouldn't even look at her, and there was this invisible rope that was lassoed around her stomach, pulling tighter and tighter, making it impossible to eat with him just there, ignoring her.

So she went out. Almost every night now.

She saw him, so clearly through the large display window that sordidly winked back at her with the lights of the city. Sodapop pressed a dirtied cloth against the surface of the counter he was behind and rubbed vigorously, like he was trying to wipe away stained memory. His usually smiling mouth was drawn into a tight, grim line, his face flushed a frustrated red, knuckles white.

Then he stopped.

Just…gave up.

He stood there, staring at the rag on the counter, breathing hard before leaning his forearms against the cleaned surface, and bowing his head in a silent defeat that she knew all too well. He looked tired, he looked broken…

He looked like her.

His face lifted suddenly, eyes meeting hers through the plated glass. Connected. They shared that moment as she slowly lifted her hand and curled her fingers twice in a slight wave. She could tell he wanted to smile, a smile that would tell her everything was fine—he was fine. Part of her wanted him to. Part of her wanted him to sink back into his golden light, dimples and all, showing off his toned arms with sleeveless shirts, cutting through day-to-day dialogue with simple wit and caring words. She wanted to go back to hating him, hating what he stood for, back to thinking he was distantly good-looking instead of brokenly beautiful.

She knew Sodapop Curtis.

She knew him better than anyone.

* * *

Note: Thanks for reading :) Reviews would be greatly appreciated. This is probably a one-shot unless I get inspired to do a little more. No, the girl in this story has no name, and yes, I know Steve's last name is Randle.


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